Blue
by hopelesslyhalfhearted
Summary: 'I wish I had a river I could float away on.' For Nikki, just when everything seemed perfect, her world comes crashing down with the latest case to come in the Lyell Centre.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

_Harry can't help but notice how happy she looks around him – the whole room can't help but notice it. He's danced with her for half the night, and spends the rest of it entertaining her friends, getting into their good books. He tells stories about infuriating editors and incompetent interns; he looks genuinely interested when Leo tries explaining some new Government cut to him; and when he tells Harry that Nikki 'never shuts up about you', he isn't lying – to the point where, if Harry asks, he won't be surprised if the stranger is able to tell him what brand of deodorant he uses. Weirder still, Harry finds that he isn't as disturbed by this as he probably he should be – he can imagine having a stimulating conversation about personal hygiene products with him, and actually enjoying it. He was charming, even Harry had to admit. _

"_He's decent," He looks towards the bar, where Daniel is buying the next round. _

"_Is that…no, it can't be," She grins and looks up at him, still surprised by how well the night has gone. "Harry Cunningham, was that boyfriend approval?" _

"_Decent does not equal approval," She tutted and elbowed him. "Where did you meet him again?"_

"_Party,"_

"_Oh, definitely not approving that," He is surprised that what he presumes must have been a drunken one night stand - as so many of her party boys (he refuses to call any of them men) turn out to be - has managed to blossom into, from what he can tell, is a fully functioning relationship. Her first functioning relationship during their friendship, he can't help but add. Being honest with himself, it isn't really the meeting place that bothers him the most – it is the idea that she is so completely enamoured with the man after only 3 months. She has a tendency to rush things, to over invest herself too quickly, and he can't bare the thought of her ending up broken over it. _

"_A grown-up party," She smiles as she recalls the memory. "Posh food, not a Strongbow in sight,"_

"_You attend those types of parties?" He nods down at her dress, which he's already pointed out, several times throughout the evening, is overly revealing. _

"_Har-har," _

"_Who's party?"_

"_Someone down in the lab," _

"_Hold on, why wasn't I invited?"_

"_Because I'm much friendlier than you," _

"_Was the party thrower male or female?"_

"_Male,"_

"_That explains it," He winks cheekily. _

"_Don't be such a pig," He scrunches up his nose and oinks loudly, earning him a delightfully airy laugh. "Dan is the guy's brother,"_

"_Have you met the kids yet?" _

"_Last night," She describes in detail how cute they were, and relays the stories they'd told her about playground adventures. She had been surprised by how open they were to the idea of her – how accepting they were of their Dad's new girlfriend. They didn't seem to carry any resentment at all – is it even possible for a 5 and 4 year old to begrudge someone? She highly doubts they understand exactly what their parents' divorce means, and whilst they seemed perfectly content throughout the dinner, she can't help but wonder that in the future maybe they will start to see her as the evil stepmother. But she doesn't tell Harry about her niggling concern; she has a feeling he might pounce on it and convince her that it is inevitable, and put her off Dan for life. He has a tendency to do that – put her off what are perfectly good men in her eyes, she'd long ago realised, and she didn't want it happening this time. She ignores the back of her mind, that tells her that, when he does do this, the men usually turn out to be rotten, and in putting her off them, he saves her a lot of heartbreak. _

"_Doesn't it put you off a bit?" _

"_The kids?" He nods._

"_And the ex. It's a lot of baggage," _

"_I guess," She pauses momentarily to think, not quite sure how to convert her thoughts into coherent sentences. "It would maybe be nicer to not have that to worry about it. But they really are wonderful. And it's a bit naïve of me to think I'll be able to find a great guy without baggage, now I've left it so late." She aches inside when she thinks about the idea of not having children of her own – they haven't talked about it, it isn't really something she wants to bring up 3 months into a relationship – but she doubts he wants another child to look after. But then she looks away from her feet and sees him coming towards them, drinks in hand and a large grin etched across his face, he trips slightly, spilling some of her Bacardi and Coke down his front, causing her to giggle at his clumsiness. And the ache subsides a little. "And he's worth it,"_

"_He's worth it," He teases, copying her in a fake American accent, like those adverts that always come on when she forces him to sit and watch Desperate Housewives. He hates that programme. She elbows him again, harder this time, though not with enough force to wipe the grin off his face. "He makes you happy?"_

"_Everyday," The way her eyes light up with her face, leaves no room for doubting this statement – not even for the cynical best friend._

"_I actually like this one." He mutters, reluctantly, into her ear. _

"_Is that approval?"_

"_As close as you're ever going to get,"_

**Chapter 1**

As he drives through the empty streets, he wonders how much success he would have in lobbying for a change in the law, whereby if a murder were committed during normal working hours, the criminal would receive a lower sentence. Maybe then it would encourage the mad people, who were responsible for getting him up at 2am, to choose a more appropriate time for their crimes. He concedes that there are a few problems his plan – as he's already pointed out to himself, the people are mad, and therefore unlikely to care about any type of law – but he can iron out the creases.

There's a short wait whilst an officer, who seemed overly-cautious, checks and re-checks Harry's identity card. He curses as he reads the out of order sign on the lift; at first hoping his tired eyes are just playing tricks on him. When he finally reaches the top floor flat, he gives a polite nod of thanks to the young uniformed officer that has lifted up the tape for him to get through the doorway, and immediately finds himself face to face with a tall, lanky man, who looks no older than the officer who let him through and is wearing a heavy jacket that hangs over his small shoulders and seems to swallow him whole.

"Detective Sam Walker,"

"Doctor Harry Cunningham," He takes in how young he looks – he could have barely been past 30, if that. "What have we got?"

"Man, early forties, knife wounds." His hands shake as he reads off his notepad. Harry wonders if it is his first murder. "Laptop, phone and cash have been stolen, the lock looks forced."

"Interrupted robbery?"

"Most probably," Sam stands silently, looking down at the older man, all the time conscious that he looks too much like a school boy, who has got stuck and is asking the teacher what to do next. He wishes he could think of something to say or what to do next, but his mind has gone blank, and the years of preparation and advice now count for nothing, as his thoughts fill with images of blood, dripping out, staining everything around it; and the never ending blackness of the hole.

He yearns to be able to close his eyes and forget about everything he's seen.

"Where's the…"

"The body. Right, yes,"

Harry follows him through the modern apartment, making mental notes as he takes in the scene around him. Open drawers, their contents strewn across the floor; the knife block in the kitchen has an empty slot; and a few plates lie in pieces, as if they had been knocked off the side in a struggle. Nothing seems inconsistent with the robbery gone wrong theory. It seems to be a fairly straightforward case – he feels relieved for the young detective. Harry wonders whether it's going to be Leo or Nikki that turns up; less than a year ago, he would have placed his life savings on it being Nikki, but since Janet's exit and Dan's entrance, it's become harder to predict, and he wouldn't bet on either.

* * *

He isn't making any attempt to be quiet; as he hunts around the room for the trousers and shirt he'd lazily discarded on the floor hours before. His heavy footsteps remind him of her absence – he used to be so careful not to wake her on the odd occasion where he did have to take a call. He supposes it's a hidden silver lining to the break-up, in that he can now use the clinking coffee maker to perk himself up and the lights can be switched on, which has certainly brought down the amount of toe stubbing.

But part of him misses tiptoeing around.

* * *

Sam leads him into the living area, where a large TV is fixed onto the wall, with a cream sofa positioned below to give the perfect viewing angle. He stops at the end of the room, and when Harry looks at the sofa, he realises why. A pool of crimson liquid sits on the wood floor, nowhere to soak into, shiny in the bright modern lighting. Two bare feet stick out at the bottom.

"You don't have to watch," He says, and although he doesn't actually emit a sigh of relief, Sam's body seems to relax. Harry doesn't think for one second that this is going to be one of the worst bodies he's seen, he doubts he'll even class it as one of the bad ones – there's not enough blood and it's not the right type of situation. But he didn't miss the large gulp that the young detective took when he first mentioned the corpse, and the small drops of sweat on his neck – it must be his first murder – and he seems nice enough, so Harry doesn't want to make it harder on him that it needs to be.

He finds that he has trouble referring to the man, practical boy, as Detective, like he has done for every other case. Maybe, he thinks as he makes his way towards the sofa, he should ask to be called Harry, and then he might ask to be called Sam too.

The first thing he notices, approaching from behind, is the gaping hole near the shoulder blade of the slumped over male, as if someone had stuck a knife in and twisted it repeatedly. He places his box on the floor and measures the size of the wound; about an inch wide, consistent with a kitchen knife. The positioning of the body is the first thing about the scene that strikes Harry as not being right – if there was a struggle between robber and occupant, why had he been sitting down, with his back towards any possible attack? He must have been sat where he was when the wound was inflicted – there were no marks on the floor to suggest the body had been moved, and the shirt had no dirt on it. The back wound couldn't have killed him and there was no way he would have stayed seated with only that.

He moves round to the front, hoping to get a better look. The pool of blood he had noticed before hadn't come from the back. His head hangs between his knees, leaving the back curved over, and tiny droplets of blood drip from what Harry guesses is a neck wound. He checks for Rigour. Only just set in. Carefully, he places his hands on the shoulders and pushes gently upwards.

He yanks his hands back instinctively.

A pair of cold, brown eyes stare back at him, covered slightly by a wispy fringe of curly hair, matching their colour. The skin stretching across his slightly chubby, middle-aged face is pale, and covered in a light layer of stubble, that reaches down to the large … slice across his throat. He doesn't seem to have any other wounds – no signs of a struggle. The front of his shirt is even more sodden than the back; the once yellow stripes of his tie are a dark orange and the small part of his shirt that remains blood-free has some sort of drink stain on it, Coke maybe.

And he could probably tell you the brand of deodorant Harry is wearing.

**I know, I'm a terribly person. I PROMISE I do have an ending for Lego House – but I tend to lose inspiration with things so easily. I have the attention span of a 3 year old.**

**Ok, so this is the FIRST story (or any piece of writing ever) that I've planned out. And it has more substance than just a long clichéd way of getting Harry and Nikki together, which is new for me. It actually has a PLOT LINE guys! **

**Please leave a review and tell me if you like this – and if I should continue. I will be updating everything else as well, now that I have some spare time.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

He's not sure what to do, and when he explains the situation to Sam, he isn't either. When he arrives, Harry fills Leo in. They both stand with their backs to the body, facing the window, unable to look at each other. After 5 minutes, Leo kicks into action, and begins phoning other pathology departments – friends, people who owe him favours – anyone. Few answer at this time in the morning, and those that do don't have the resources. And not for the first time, he curses the stupid bloody Government cuts.

Whilst Leo does this, Harry goes back to Sam.

"You need to send some men to this address," He scribbles down the sight of his Friday night movie viewings on the back of one of his business cards. "It's Dr Nikki Alexander,"

"She's your colleague?"

"Yes,"

"The girlfriend?" He can't help thinking how odd it sounds to his ears. _The _girlfriend. He was having enough trouble acclimatising himself to the idea that she was _a _girlfriend. Now she is _the._ He knows it's a silly, pathetic, tiny distinction, so he doesn't bother sharing his thoughts out loud. Though he doubts the young detective would understand what he was going on about, even if he did.

"You need to inform his ex-wife too. And children." The young man looks down to the floor; he had been half-heartedly hoping that the pictures that lay in smashed frames on floor were of nieces – somehow, he thought he would have found that easier to deal with. "But I don't know their address."

"Would you like the be there when we…I…?"

"Tell her?" No, the answer is no, he definitely would not _like _to be there when her world comes crashing down. He wouldn't _like _to see her face contorting into a display of pure horror, or her body shaking as she attempts to calm herself. He wouldn't _like _to listen to her desperate questioning as she tries to make sense of the situation. Yet he knows maybe he _should_ be there. But he can't.

He tells Sam he needs to keep his distance, for now, just until they know what's going to happen. Sam leaves the two pathologists alone.

Neither of them proceeds with their job – unsure whether they are actually allowed to. More importantly, whether they physically can.

Sam returns from a phone call with a senior Detective – they'll have to continue as usual by themselves. Someone will meet them at the Lyell Centre to discuss the matter further.

* * *

_2am and I'm stood in the rain waiting to get into a crime scene. I hate you. Hope he snores and you can't sleep either._

She smiles as she reads Harry's text, glad that she'd turned her phone of silent and hadn't been woken up when it was sent. She slept soundly, without any snores interrupting her, because she slept alone.

It's odd, she thinks, that she misses the warmth of waking up beside someone so much, when it is something so new to her.

He insisted on dropping her at her flat after the party, despite her protestations. She'd spent the past week at his place; even her nights on call were spent there, once she realised he was an incredibly deep sleeper. So, she was surprised when he was so adamant that she go home. Without him.

She knows it's probably for the best that one of them isn't acting like a love struck teenager. Heaven knows if they both acted like she did (without thinking and recklessly) there most likely would been a Vegas wedding by now. And, although Dr Nikki Taylor does have a nice ring to it, she's not entirely sure whether that's what she wants – just yet.

She's not even sure if she loves him.

Yes, she does spend most of her time daydreaming about his eyes – his bright, warm chestnut eyes – and she loves hearing his voice at the end of a long day; but she's not entirely sure that means she loves him. Because it's the same way she felt with the boys she dated in High School – and she knows for sure that wasn't love. It was infatuation. Lust. Excitement. Anything but love.

She always thought love needed to be stable and consistent, and although she definitely feels safe around him, she's not stupid enough to think that she can fully judge how sturdy their relationship is after only 3 months. There's plenty she doesn't know about him - his parents' names; his favourite music; exactly why his marriage failed. But there's a future – she can actually imagine still being with him in a year's time, and more importantly, having made progression in that year.

No, she doesn't love him. But she definitely could.

Halfway through pouring out a bowl of cereal, the doorbell interrupts her.

* * *

"How well do you know the victim?" Sam looks sheepish sitting next to the Superintendent, embarrassed that he's had to call in help before he's even had a chance to investigate anything. But he's well aware there is no way he'd know what to do about this.

"We met him once," Leo answers, looking over at Harry, who has spent the entire time since returning from the crime scene staring out the nearest window he can find. He neglects to mention that the one meeting was the previous night. Neglects to mention that just last night he had seen his eyes, bright and shining, never straying from Nikki's for too long – the same eyes that he had had to close shut, just hours afterwards. "But our colleague is very intimate with the victim," It's easier to just refer to him as that for now. Saying the name out loud will force them both to deal with the situation; whereas currently they were on some sort of auto-pilot, refusing to allow themselves to think beyond the present – because if they think too much, they know their minds will fill of images of Nikki, and what they'll have to face when they see her - they're not ready to confront that part.

"Has she been told?" Leo nods.

Harry feels a pang of regret stab into his heart, and not going with the officers to inform Nikki seems like the biggest mistake he's made in his life. As much as he tries to resist it, his mind fills with images of an inept PC offering a cup of tea, attempting to pat her on the back. He knows he should have been there - he shouldn't have been so weak and useless – she needed … needs him, and he's not there.

"It's not an ideal situation, but we simply don't have another pathology team to put on this." The Superintendent looks genuinely sorry – between Sam's awkward apologies when Harry first explained who the victim was, and the quiet, delicate way the senior officer has been dealing with things, Harry can't help but snidely think it's the most human emotion displayed by the police he's seen in his entire career. "Of course, Dr Alexander will not be working on the case. I won't insult you by explaining the importance of confidentiality."

He knows Nikki will try getting information out of him. It's who she is – determined. The prospect of having to keep her in dark, having to say no to all her probing and questioning fills him with dread. He can't possibly comprehend how he's going to be able to ensure she only knows the same information that is available to the public, or whatever police may tell her during interviewing. It would be much easier if he could just avoid contact with her until the case is over, he thinks. But he can't do that. He's already let her down once and it's not even midday. He has to be there for her.

* * *

"Are we doing the autopsy?" She crashes through the doors, just as Leo is saying goodbye to the Superintendent.

She has been crying, it's obvious, even though she spent the entire car drive brushing the tears away, willing the redness to disappear. Immediately, Harry realises she's going to attempt to be strong and shrug off any sympathy he displays. She isn't going to let him hug her or comfort her, she's going to insist he tell her everything he knows – insist she can work on the case, even though she knows deep down she never could. She's going to be stubborn – the stern, stony look on her face makes this clear. She doesn't want to be vulnerable; it's what she hates most in the world.

Yet, the pyjama bottoms that still adorn her legs clearly show that she is.

Three of the men look at each other, but Harry keeps his glassy gaze firmly fixed on hers.

"Dr Alexander, you cannot be involved with this case," Sam is glad the Superintedent is there. He knows for sure he wouldn't be able to utter those words to her – he can't ignore the pain in her eyes and the shaking of her hands, of her entire body – he can't bring himself to be so stern, so professional.

She spends the next ten minutes pleading with them, begging to be let in. She screams at Leo at one point, and she's vaguely aware that later on, when the fog around her mind clears, she'll regret this. She's furious that Harry doesn't interfere – that he just stands there like a lemon, not opening his mouth once, drooping his head, not even daring to meet her eyes. She needs him to side with her.

* * *

The light tapping on the window forces her to lift her head from the steering wheel. He slips into the passenger seat without waiting for her to make any sort of invitation for him to do so.

"Why didn't you back me up?" Her eyes are piercing and vicious – he feels like if he looks at them for too long, he may actually die - but underneath the bitterness and betrayal is pain, just like when she confronted him about America.

"You know I couldn't." She makes no attempt to dispute this, but stays silent, too stubborn to let him know she realises he is right. "If you want me to, I can refuse to do the case." Part of him is desperately hoping she says yes, so they can be in the dark together, and he won't have to keep things from her. He's well aware of how selfish this is.

"No way," She plays with a bracelet, twisting it round and round, leaving a small red mark circling around her wrist. "Not with that boy they've got leading the investigation. I need to know there's someone who actually knows what they're doing."

"I'm sure Detective Walker is perfectly capable," He hopes he sounds much more convinced than he feels.

"And you can…"

"No." He turns quickly in his seat. "Stop. I can't do anything for you … with the case. I can't tell you anything about it. You know that." He grabs the hand that was playing with the bracelet, and squeezes it tightly. "I wish I could." He whispers it, afraid of how close his voice is to cracking. "But I'll do anything else you need me to. Anything." He hopes she will finally crack, and cry, and just let him hold her, and comfort her, and tell her it will be ok.

Instead, she removes her hand from his and turns the engine on.

"I'm sorry, Niks."

"You better get on with your work,"

"I'll come over tonight."

"Don't."

**I am so bad at updating it is unreal. I'm sorry. I have a very long car journey this week – so hopefully I can write some then. Thank you to anyone and everyone who has the patience to stick with my terrible sporadic updating. **


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The autopsy doesn't take long. They work on it together, whilst Sam stands behind the observation glass. The back wound came first, and then the throat was cut. He would have died quickly after that. There is slight bruising on the forehead, consistent with someone holding it back with one arm, whilst using the other to make the fatal wound. They manage to collect some foreign female DNA from around one of the wounds.

His stomach still contains the nuts Nikki had been throwing into his mouth throughout the evening.

* * *

"All the blood patterns match with him being stabbed whilst seated." Sam sits across the table from the pathologists, listening intently to Leo. "We didn't find any traces of dirt on his shirt, and no other signs that he might have been dragged. There were no injuries other than the knife wounds."

"So there hadn't been a struggle?"

"I doubt it."

"Then why the smashed plates?"

"We're only here to give you the evidence." Of course, despite this, both of their heads are whirring with ideas and theories, and Harry knows he'll probably end up sharing most of his with the young detective despite protocol.

"Right, yes," His lack of conviction leaves Harry wondering if Nikki was right to not trust his capabilities. "And the DNA sample?"

"No match to the database, and not a relation."

"Ok." He opens his mouth to continue, but then stops. He opens it again, before clamping it back shut – Harry thinks he'd find how out of his depth Sam is amusing, if he wasn't so desperate for this case to be solved quickly. "I'll need to collect DNA from any females close to him."

"Is that absolutely necessary?" Leo manages to say quickly, stopping Harry from voicing his thoughts with a stern glance.

"At the moment we have nothing else to go on. Forensics are still sorting through the flat, but they've found nothing. Not a single fingerprint, no DNA, nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I'll send someone to get samples from his ex-wife and Dr Alexander, they'll be with you by this afternoon,"

"Ok."

"I'll keep you updated on any developments,"

"Thank you,"

* * *

"What if it wasn't a robbery?" Leo indicates for Harry to continue. "Ok, so first, the plates – makes it look like there was a struggle – a robber caught in the act, they fight, he panics, and kills him. But there's no other piece of evidence that suggests that. He was sat down, with his back to any possible attacker. And he had bare feet. If you come home and see the lock has been forced, you don't take the time to remove your shoes and socks, then sit down to watch the telly. And the flat is entirely clean. Completely clean."

"They cleared up after themselves,"

"What run of the mill robber is that good at cleaning up after themself? Plus, they would have been panicking – they hadn't intended to hurt anyone, never mind kill someone. When people are panicked they always make a mistake. Always."

"They left DNA on the wound,"

"No matches to the database – you wouldn't pick an expensive block of flats as your first crime – if it was a robber, they would probably have a previous conviction, so they'd be on file."

"Maybe they just hadn't been caught for previous crimes,"

"And why a flat on the top floor? Why would you do that? It makes no sense – it would be much harder to make a quick get away if you got caught, you'd have to run down all the stairs. They could have found cash, and a phone and a laptop in _any _of those flats, if that's all they wanted." It clicks then, and he curses himself for having not thought of it all morning. "If they just wanted the…"

"Harry?" Papers fly off his desk as he searches for the business card Sam had given him a few hours ago. "Harry?"

"Daniel was a journalist," He explains breathlessly. "What if he was writing any article on someone? If he had dirt on someone, that would explain why they would take the _laptop _and _phone_. And why it had to be _his _flat."

Leo looks on helplessly as Harry works himself into a frenzy explaining the theory to the detective down the phone. This case won't leave any of their minds until it's solved, and probably not for a long time after either, he knows that – but the look in Harry's eyes scares him. It's not the determination that's worrying, he long ago got used to that. He can't place what it is exactly – but it's awfully similar to Hungary, frightening similar.

When he gets off the phone, he immediately begins searching on his computer, looking for any recent articles written by Daniel. Anything that could give him a clue as to what he was working on. Leo closes the lid of the laptop, leaving Harry just enough time to pull his fingers away before being trapped.

"Go see her,"

* * *

She sits on the other side of the door, listening to his knocks. He's been there for at least half an hour now, calling out her name between wraps. He isn't shouting, which she appreciates. It calms her.

"Niks, please let me in," She wonders if he knows she's right there, close enough to hear his sigh every time his calls go unanswered. Her mobile buzzes besides her, indicating that she has yet another missed call from him. That's 49 now. "Niks, I just need to know you're OK."

Of course she isn't ok. She can't imagine ever being ok. Which is why she doesn't want to see him right now. She doesn't want to cry again, not yet. And she doesn't want him to hold her, and tell her it will be ok. Because right now, she won't be able to believe what he's telling her, no matter how hard she tries. And she just wants to pretend, just for a little while longer, that it hasn't actually happened – that she'll wake up tomorrow and be able to go to the lunch date they arranged, and laugh at the misplaced apostrophes in the menu with him.

"Nikki,"

She can't be with Harry right now because she can't stand the thought of him knowing more than she does – and she knows she'll question him about it. If face to face with him, there is no way she will be able to resist asking. She won't be able to cope with having him say no to her, like he will inevitably have to.

His shoes clap against the stone floors as he slowly makes his way down the steps, the sound getting fainter and fainter. She waits another 5 minutes before standing up and checking the peephole. He is gone. She hopes not forever.

Because she does need him. She's always going to need him. Just later.

* * *

He checks her favourite bench by the Thames; his own flat; the restaurant where she goes… went to lunch with Daniel every Monday. He phones all her other friends that he has contacts for – none of them have seen her. Just to make sure, he goes back to the Lyell – he can't tell quite how desperate she is to find out information. He relaxes slightly when there's no sign of her being there. He drives back to her flat, double-checking that it definitely is her car parked up on the road. He pulls in behind it.

He's still there when daylight hits.

**Thank you for your patience!**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Detective," Harry nods politely as they enter the building together, escaping the early morning drizzle.

"Dr Cunningham," His usual self would ask to be called by his first name, but he doesn't want to make the case anymore personal than it needs to be. He needs to act completely professional, if he has any hope of solving the case and keeping his new position. "Your boss said you weren't going to get involved beyond telling me the facts,"

"I shouldn't," He waits, giving the Detective time to decide whether he really wants to proceed. Yes, he agreed to meet with the pathologist, but they both know actively inviting him to get involved could create complications. Sam still has time to back out.

"You wanted to walk me through the theory?" He decides that even if he doesn't facilitate Dr Cunningham's ideas, he's going to have them anyway, and he very well might act on them, with or without police help – Sam didn't miss the look of determination that had been present since the body was identified. He's already noticed how close he is to his bereaved colleague – when he phoned the lab the night before, he'd been told Harry was with her; and his inability, or refusal, to talk for the majority of yesterday morning gives Sam a good idea of how much he cares for her. The bags under the elder man's eyes give him a clue too. And whilst he trusts (or is trying desperately hard to hope) that the he won't do anything illegal, that he won't give her any information, Sam is certain he will do anything he can to solve the case for his friend. He will work flat out – Sam admires that.

Plus, he wants to get this case done with, as quickly as possible - not just for him, but for everyone involved (he can tell the pathologist hasn't slept) – and to do so, he'll need as much help as he can get. From the brief overview he'd given on the phone, it seems like he's incredibly perceptive and incredibly smart – he's thought of something that hadn't even crossed Sam's mind. The young detective isn't stupid – there's a reason he was promoted through the ranks so quickly – but he knows he can't dismiss the fact that this is his first murder case, and it most certainly isn't Dr Cunningham's. His experience is invaluable.

"Yes,"

Harry spends the next hour piecing together his ideas. He runs his hands through his hair several times, and throughout it all Walker stays silent, allowing Harry complete freedom, and giving himself time to process everything, sifting through for any potential cracks.

"What do you think?"

"His phone was on him, yes? Whoever it was, if they were after the phone, they would have known it was on him. Nobody goes out without their mobile." Sam wanders into the kitchen. "So, it makes sense that they would need to threaten him, get him to give it up. So, why would they not have brought their own weapon? Why use a kitchen knife?"

"Maybe they didn't use violence to threaten him at first," Harry can't help but stare at the calendar that still hangs on the wall besides the fridge – lunch with Nikki is written in today's box. "They could have threatened to harm his family, friends,"

"But they would have brought some sort of weapon along – to prove they were serious, to frighten him. If like you said, things went wrong, the victim didn't give up as easily as they had thought, they had to kill him – why not use their own weapon?"

"I don't know," Confidence begins to seep out of Harry – he can see the detective's face straining, picking apart his ideas, and attempting to work out if they were any use at all.

"The wound to the back was the first?"

"Yes,"

"And he was in that position when it happened?"

"Almost certainly,"

"Why would he turn his back on them?"

"Maybe there was more than one," It is one of the main problems with his theory, and having kept him up all night, he is yet to come to a better answer than the one he has just given. "One could have been talking to him, distracting him, whilst the other attacked,"

"But why attack?" This is the biggest crack – it's not even a crack, more a wide-open canyon, which Harry has been unable to fill with any sort of logical explanation. "There are no signs he fought with them, nothing at all. We're pretty sure the broken plates were staged afterwards. There was no struggle. Why turn robbery, into murder?"

"Maybe they always intended to murder him – he would have known what was on the phone and laptop, he could be equally as damaging."

"Which brings us back to why not bring their own weapon, if that was what they planned all along?"

Both men stand in silence, deep in thought. Harry tries his hardest to ignore that a jar of Nikki's favourite brand of instant coffee sits on a shelf, next to a different brand – presumably Daniel's choice.

"Neither of the women matched the DNA," Sam says finally, breaking the silence when he realises neither of them are progressing any further. Harry nods – Leo already told him when he dropped into the Lyell Centre quickly, before meeting the detective. "I'm going to talk to Dr Alexander today,"

"Ok," Sam turns to leave, his feet seems to drag behind him. He wonders if it's possible for them to have actually become heavier since the case started – they feel heavier. Everything feels heavier. "Detective," He stops. "Do it before lunchtime," Harry gestures towards the calendar, and he nods. "Be…" He trails off.

"I'll be delicate,"

With the earnest look in his eyes, and the gentle manner in which he has gone about the rest of his business so far, Harry doesn't doubt him.

"Would you say that Daniel was brave?" She hasn't looked at him yet, and her answers haven't reached beyond 4 words maximum. Mostly, he just gets yes or no. She isn't replying to this one at all.

She desperately wants to look up, raise an eyebrow, and let him see that she wants to know why he's asking – that she wants to understand. But she resents that he knows so much that she cannot; she's angry. And she needs to remain angry – with him, with Harry, with the nice PC that accidentally gave her a coffee with 2 sugars instead of 1. Because once the anger has gone, she will have to deal with the other feelings – the terrifying feelings.

"Nikki," His voice lowers, to barely a whisper. She feels sorry for the Detective, having to deal with her. He seems nice – he seems like he cares. "I'm going to be honest with you. We have nothing to go on." He's glad the PC is still messing about in the kitchen. "We have a couple of theories – but that's all they are, theories. Dr Cu…Harry is working with me to figure it out; and we are doing our very best. But we need your help,"

"But you can't tell me what theories?" She looks up, and for the first time he notices how red her eyes are. Not red from crying – bloodshot red. Angry, tired, bloodshot red. "You can't tell me what I'm helping with."

"You're helping catch the person who did this. So I need you to answer as best as you can." She takes a sip of the overly sweet coffee. "The door was forced open; was Daniel the type of man to go in and investigate, without phoning the police?"

Harry spends the rest of his morning reading through every article of Daniel's he can find.

"Do you know what story Daniel was working on?"

"You think he was killed because he had dirt on someone?" Sam realises he has underestimated how familiar the doctor is with police questioning tactics. Stupid of him, really.

"Did you discuss with him what story he was working on?" He dodges her question.

"No," She's angry with herself now – for not knowing this. For not knowing something that could help them. "We didn't… he said if he discussed work with me, it might encourage me to talk to him about mine." She swallows. "He was squeamish."

He can tell by the look that has spread across her face that she's disappointed with herself – that she wishes she could do more. He tries to tell her it's OK, that they have other ways of getting any information they might need, but she doesn't listen. She sits, silent, staring at the wall.

And from then on she sticks to yes or no answers.

She knows he's lying awake next to her, despite his best efforts at pretending to be sound asleep.

"What's wrong?" She cuddles up against his back, gently tracing a finger down his arm.

"If you thought you might be in trouble, with work. With anyone. You'd tell me?" He can't bare the thought of ever feeling how that doctor must have done – can't even begin to imagine how hopeless he would feel. He doesn't ever want his eyes to look like hers did.

"Baby, I'm an accountant, I don't think I can make many enemies,"

"But you would?" It's just now that she notices how still he is – she can barely feel the movement of his breathing.

"Sam, of course I would,"

She wishes he'd come back. She knows if he comes tonight, she'd open the door and just let herself fall into him. She'll let him spend the night next to her on the sofa, talking, or not talking, whatever – let him comfort her. She'll let him do that.

Going to the lunch reservation wasn't the best idea she's ever had, to put it mildly. She spent an hour trying to decide what to order, the poor waitress had to come over and ask at least 5 times.

But it's midnight now, and she has been sat next to the door for five hours. He's not going to come. She feels stupid for ever thinking he would – not after the way she treated him yesterday.

Hours seem to fly by whenever he sets himself a task. Unless that task is getting his reports finished.

He's read through every article Daniel has ever written, or the ones available online at least, even though Sam told him he got nothing from the newspaper or Nikki. He knows the detective is looking for alternatives to the journalist theory – even Harry has to admit that it seems less plausible tonight than it did this morning, having found nothing to suggest that he was working on anything other than a piece on bio-fuel future – but he refuses to give up on it just yet.

He looks up at the clock, and curses. He should be somewhere else.


End file.
